


Don't Go Where I Can't Follow

by PaigeStaves



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Best Friends, Friendship, Gen, Non-binary character, Nonbinary Character, Two Inquisitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaigeStaves/pseuds/PaigeStaves
Summary: Adrian and Thea are pulled into the world of Thedas, an arcane Anchor split between them. This is a series of vignettes where their friendship is tested, tried, and found true. Some are just from Adrian's perspective. Some might be just from Thea's point of view. It is hardship and triumph. Each one is named for a song that inspired the theme.
Relationships: best friends - Relationship
Kudos: 2
Collections: Two Inquisitors One Brain Cell





	1. Tongue-tied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This first one is "Tongue-tied" by Emily Portman. It's the most obvious reference in-text that a song will get. The other ones are just thematic.

It did not matter what they had been doing, in the sense that it no longer mattered to their present situation. The present situation was a sudden darkness, impossible pressure, no air, no anything—and suddenly a blur of ethereal light, stone ground into their faces, shouts, a wind that pulled at their very essence. They did not know it at the time, but Thea and Adrian were in the Fade, groggily picking themselves up, with the encroaching scuttle of demons. This was not what either would call _ideal_.

Adrian seemed to adjust slightly quicker, grabbing Thea’s hand and screaming at her to run. The two dashed through the realm, bodies burning with exertion. When Thea looked over her shoulder, she saw the hulking, skittering forms of spiders and panic drove her harder. Neither had any idea where they were running—just that they did not want to be caught. They both heard a voice calling to them. A tall figure in robes gestured to a gleaming tear in the nightmare through which they ran.

Thea pulled ahead and reached the woman. Pausing, she looked back at Adrian, who bolted with wide, fearful eyes. Adrian crashed into Thea, tumbling them both through the light.

Adrian had a black eye. It was not from a fall or by accident. It had been a well-earned retaliation from a soldier who had received Adrian’s heel to his own eye. His eye looked just as bad, and from their position kneeling on the ground, hands bound in iron to the same bar that held Thea, Adrian glared unblinkingly at the soldier. He still had to guard the prisoners, and Adrian had singled them out as an outlet for their fury.

Thea was crying quietly beside Adrian. The dense quiet of the dark cell bubbled with her breaths. Adrian had run out of things to say that did not sound like blatant lies. Their hands glowed, they were stuck in what looked like a Medieval Times break room, and they had been locked up. Both of their minds reeled, but in wildly different directions.

With nothing left to comfort their friend, Adrian did what they hoped would either comfort or distract Thea, as well as unsettling their guards. Because Adrian needed to spite the beasts who had handled Thea so roughly.

Adrian sang, softly at first.

“ _Tongue-tied, I am bound to weave my words with thistle down. Sickle moon on the moor—”_

It was a song they sang in the woods, on the side of a mountain years ago. It was a song they sang in the car, in Thea’s basement with a bottle of rum, in parks, and across a continent in their dreams. When Thea heard Adrian begin, she choked on her sobs and regarded her friend with disbelief.

“ _—turns thistledown silver and fingers raw.”_

A guard spoke up—one without a purpling souvenir from Adrian’s foot.

“Hey! What are you saying?”

Adrian raised their voice in answer, pouring all the intensity of their gaze onto the guard who spoke.

“ _I dye a thistle thread red for my mother’s tongue. Mother’s word makes scavenging birds, a wish for a daughter, not seven sons—”_

Adrian felt the song vibrate in their chest, and they felt themself swell out of their body. The guards became agitated but remained fixed in place. As Adrian scanned them over, they could see fearful expressions, as mouths worked to speak but made no sound.

“ _—Rash words, a shower of stones throws seven princes from their thrones. Mother’s words, the seed of me. Now I’m tongue-bound, tongue-bound ‘til they are free.”_

Unnerved, but incredibly curious, Adrian continued. The guards seemed to struggle against invisible bonds and gags. When they reached the chorus again, Thea joined in a soft and hesitant voice. She had noticed, and had no idea what was happening, but it was _something_. Their voices wove and became discordant, seeming to multiply in an echo of rounds in the chamber. Adrian saw the guard that struck them let a tear fall.

The door slammed open and a blinding bolt of light struck Adrian and Thea in their throats. They reeled, coughing and choking. The song and its binding effects had ended. In a flash, blades were drawn and held ready. A woman with short black hair and a withering glare loomed over them. She spoke in a language that they could not quite understand. As Thea and Adrian stared at her in confusion, they felt shifts in their perception—the world tilting and pitching, bulging and shrinking until the words became natural to them.

The woman still spoke, and Thea was replying to her, but Adrian’s head still swam.

“Shit,” they muttered, blinking rapidly.

The effect was not unfamiliar to Adrian. Indeed, it felt uncannily similar to the neurological episodes that either came alone or with migraines. Adrian could not focus on anything other than calming the rising anxiety that threatened to spill over into panic. They heard Thea scream quietly, as another flash of light burst from the woman. But Adrian floated in a hollow that they could not pull themself out of. Their eyes unfocused, and a slack paralysis crept into the right side of their body. Their head began to jerk to the right in a shaking pattern. Their body began to tremble. Language became unintelligible again, and Adrian began to vomit as intense nausea waved over them. They were aware of Thea’s cries and a scattering of swords and bodies, and finally a wicked flash of green from their hand, before they pitched forward, crumpled in a shaking heap.

Adrian came to beside Thea, their hands still cuffed but liberated from the iron bar. Their mouth was dry, and their body ached. The green light still clung to their left hand. A bald man leaned over them, a softer green light emanating from his own hand. Adrian groggily wondered where they were all getting these lights from.

The bald man withdrew, and guards pushed them roughly to their feet.

“Don’t touch her like that,” Adrian rasped, trying to sound bold.

They heard the bald man say to the woman with the withering glare, “It will hold for now. We do not have the time.”

Thea’s arms held Adrian steady, and they realized that Thea was not cuffed. They heard Thea’s voice in their ear.

“We’re not, uh, in our own world.”

“… the fuck?”

Thea swallowed hard.

“We have to help them, okay? We have to help them now, and then they will… uh, explain. Just, trust me.”

Adrian nodded, “Okay…”

The woman approached Adrian, telling them sharply, “I am going to take these off. If you make another move against us, I will not hesitate to cut you down.”

Adrian could only nod, assuming that the woman had meant that they were not allowed to kick another guard in the face. They regarded the bald man and realized that his ears extended to long points. As Adrian stared in blatant confusion, he gave them a curious look. Adrian quickly looked away, but the frown on their brow remained. They looked at Thea, who gave her a meaningful look that Adrian took to mean, _yeah, shit is fucked up, we’re not in our own world, I told you._

Adrian mouthed the words, _Good neighbor?_ _Fey?_

Thea shrugged slightly. The man still regarded them with the same curious look. Adrian’s breath puffed out their cheeks. They followed the woman who led them out of the prison and into a winter landscape. Neither of them was prepared for the chill, but their captors did not seem to care. Adrian quickly understood why, as the woman pointed to a massive tear in the sky that she called the Breach.

The cold air tightened Adrian’s skin and accentuated their growing migraine headache. They could not look directly at the harsh light that crackled around the Breach, instead keeping their head down, focusing on moving their right leg forward. Adrian stumbled several times and visibly limped. This seemed to only upset the woman more, and Thea moved to their other side for support.

Words caught in Adrian’s throat as they moved closer to the Breach. They clung to Thea, whose hands communicated in comforting squeezes. Adrian’s mind was reeling. A broken sky. A different _world_. And lights everywhere, blinding, healing, hurting, and binding. They reached into the core of themself, where ritual and faith emanated soft and eternal, and they found a new string attached, one that lead out of their core and into the pulsating green on their left palm.


	2. Bravery Be Written

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrian misses praying. They miss knowing the sky. They miss understanding how things work. They miss so much. 
> 
> "Bravery Be Written" by The Show Ponies

Adrian rode past the training grounds, bow and quiver slung over their back. A stuffed sack was cinched behind them on their mount. It was moments like these that made them miss their dad the most. He would have been proud of their riding posture, and their heart was mournful and warmed at the thought of him examining their recurve, how he’d pluck the string and make some kind of joke involving a movie or song they didn’t know, but they should because it was a “classic.”

Lost in their own thoughts, they took the long trail, inhaling deeply. Growing up, they always had a spot—a quiet place where they could be alone with the land and themself. In Haven, they found many, although it was difficult to sneak out unnoticed. They often suspected that they were followed, if only because it was unbelievable that the spymaster would let them wander unobserved.

Once far enough down the trail, they turned to the trees, and slowly walked their mount through the conifers. Their brother would know the trees—or maybe he would not. They looked familiar to Adrian, but their brother was a forester. They tried to remember whether spruce or pine had square needles, but then again, would that be true here? Adrian tried not to dwell on things too much. Many nights were spent between them and Thea whispering back and forth, stalling on the implications of similarity and difference. On warmer nights, Adrian would stare at the stars, feeling an extraordinary grief at their abnormality. They were beautiful, but they were not _theirs_.

Draping the reins over a branch, they took the stuffed sack and paced out twenty yards. Their arrows were fletched with bright red to make them obvious in the snow. They had not shot a bow in over a decade, and even then, it had fibre optic sights.

Their shoulders screamed as they flexed the limbs, drawing back to anchor their right thumb behind their jaw. It took a few shots to calibrate the aim, but the arrows struck the sack with a loud _thump_. Lowering the bow, Adrian felt a solidity within themself fall away. They just wanted to hug their mom.

Adrian shot again. And again. They started to miss the sack when they could no longer see due to the tears streaming down their face. Adrian shot their final arrow, and it whistled through the trees. Carefully, they unstrung the bow and slid it into a cloth sheath. They pulled a handkerchief from their collar and wiped their face. Their mount nudged them and breathed heavy on their cheek. Adrian sunk to the snow.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” they wept, hoping desperately that some part of them still reached their parents. “God, take me home. Please God, take me home.”

Adrian decided not to think about how they had not been a proper Catholic since they were thirteen, or about how if there had been a God back home, they had no idea if that meant God would be here. All they knew for sure was that their sobs were met with the accepting apathy of the snow-stifled trees.

When Solas had held Adrian’s and Thea’s hands to the first rift and showed them what they were meant to do, Adrian had been transfixed by the sight of it. The visions of the rifts were something they secretly cherished. They were extraordinary things. And Adrian could touch them. The way color and reality twisted around the jutting edges that were constantly in motion made Adrian want to stare at them for as long as possible. This was always cut short by the outpouring of demons. Adrian wondered if benign spirits had ever passed through or if this world was coveted only by the corrupted.

They had fallen from a bridge that collapsed under their feet. Adrian barely remembered anything from that day. To them, the memory is a swirl of bravado, shock, and lucky improvisation. Adrian’s fear had always functioned to freeze them in place, but in this world, it had found a way out of their body and jolting into the bodies of the twisted creatures that attacked them. They had thrown their own body between demons and Thea, who had discovered abilities of her own, making Adrian stronger on their feet and more energized. Adrian and Thea had found blunt items that they used as improvised weapons.

Adrian remembered how they had burst out laughing, nearly hysterical, when they were first told that what they were doing was _magic._ It had taken a long time for that to sink in. It took a long time for many things to sink in.

Adrian’s back rested against a tree, their bottom beginning to feel the cold of the snow through their layers. The tears had ebbed and left frozen trails on their cheeks. They hugged themself and pretended that their arms encompassed each member of their family. The sobs returned, and Adrian stayed there until the waves of hurt stopped pushing them off of their feet.

They had a chill that bit hard into their joints. A raw ache spread over their connective tissue, and Adrian felt the dull pulse from the sigils that Solas had drawn between their shoulder blades. It was keeping the migraine at bay. They were experimental and Adrian hoped that they could get them worked out to the point of tattoos. It was not as good as the medication they no longer had access to, but it was a massive relief. Still, Adrian felt every jolt of their horse’s movements, and they debated between the slow walk in the cold or the aching trot to warmth.

Adrian excelled in hiding their pain. They had learned from youth that to show pain was to show weakness. It made others worry where they did not have to, and truthfully Adrian was unsure how to even begin to show that pain other than simply stating that it was there. That day, Adrian was dangerously close to letting their tears flow unchecked as they rode through Haven. They bit the inside of their lip until it bled.

They rudely brushed off the attendance of servants as they slammed their cabin door behind them. Adrian immediately regretted it at the sight of the fire that was well established and keeping the small room comfortable. They quickly reopened the door and ordered a hot bath with a hasty thank you. It was not until they were seated in the steaming waters, alone, with their knees curled to their chest that they opened their mouth in a silent scream.

It was a practice that Adrian had perfected in their mid-twenties. Their apartment had thin walls, and the idea that their neighbors would be privy to their distress made them anxious. So, Adrian had started screaming into pillows, but quickly learned how to do it with very little sound at all. Renewed rivulets of tears blended with the bathwater that they splashed over their face.

Silently, Adrian railed against God. It was the oldest rock they had. Adrian knew that they were fortunate to grow up with a priest who prioritized reason and thought, and with parents who never stopped their questions. God remained as God when Adrian realized that they did not fit their society’s gender definitions and boundaries. God had remained as God when Adrian felt attraction and lust where they had not been told it could be. When Adrian had been attacked, God had remained that distant God that never once made them feel like the individual events in their life defined what they were.

Except for now.

At twenty-eight, Adrian had not had a lot of direction. They worked research contracts on a casual basis, and spent their summers working odd jobs to pay the bills. Adrian was not aimless, but they never understood the rhythm of life that their brother seemed to fall neatly into. Adrian had often doubted their God, and they argued with their God on a regular basis. It was, perhaps for the best, a one-sided debate, but it always left Adrian with a sense of conviction.

Now, Adrian could not feel their God. That was a familiar feeling, and it was usually resolved by casting out heated arguments into the oblivion of their faith until that certain feeling returned. But no matter how Adrian’s whole being cried out, the spot in their core, where ritual and faith lived, seemed like a cooling hearth. They were beyond everything they had ever known, and when they reached out to the one constant they had, it was not reaching back.

This time, Adrian wept because they had no idea what that meant. They wept because it signalled something devasting. It had not been a source of hope to Adrian, but it had acted like a companion when life became achingly lonely. Like now, in a small bath, in a cabin, in the mountains, in _Thedas_. It was a constant in that no matter where they went or what happened to them, that concept was always there. It morphed and changed over their life, but it was still _there._

What was _here_?

Adrian curled around their centre, as the hot water unwound their muscles and chased off the chill. They whispered into their skin.

“I’ll find you again. I keep you, and I’ll hold you, and we’ll find you. I promise.”

Adrian found that they were speaking to the memories of their life before. To the faces of their brother and parents.

“I’ll never let you go, I promise,” they cried quietly.

Adrian’s shoulders shook, but no other sound came with the open mouth and shaking breaths.

Adrian would stand alongside Thea, their glowing hands extended—the others clasped together steadfastly. They would look at their companion and declare, “We can do this.” Thea would look at Adrian with faith. Adrian would look at Thea with hope.

Adrian would eventually come to the solid ground they were desperately searching for. The conviction would come with a joke from Thea, in an old saying about being given challenges they were meant for. Adrian decided that if God was real, and if God had been with them, then God would trust them to do what was right.

Adrian prayed often, out of stubbornness more than habit or belief. Adrian prayed to an alien God in the face of the Chantry, and in those prayers, they declared that if God had not written bravery on their very bones, then God would send them home. And if God did not send them home, then they would continue to barrel through and find a way back by themself—if there even was one. Adrian accepted privately that it was a freak accident that sent them careening into Thedas, but they also swore that their lack of agency would end there.

Eventually, Adrian would feel all of these things and be comforted. But in the cabin, in the tub, at that time in Thedas, Adrian clung only to themself and the last shining thread of hope that one day they would find more.


	3. The Bug Collector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrian struggles with feeling out of control. 
> 
> "The Bug Collector" by Haley Heynderickx

Adrian spent a lot of time with Harrit, the blacksmith. They found serenity in bothering the man about armor and weapons and upgrades. They came to him at all hours with stacks of paper, which were scribbled on both sides to economize, full of sketches and ideas. Adrian was a font of questions as well, who had been spoiled by Josephine with a stack of journals that could fit in their back pocket, journals that could spread across their lap, journals without lines to limit. Adrian dogged Harrit, journal and writing implement in hand, until the man told them to show up at the forge first thing in the morning to report to work.

Adrian was consistently ten minutes early, sipping something hot and revitalizing as they watched the sky change. All of Haven knew that this Herald was always _thinking_ and _making_ and _demanding_ , so it was a relief to the tradespeople when Harrit finally captured that energy into a practical force.

The Herald grew strong as they helped with the morning duties of the forge, whispering the metallurgy to themself as they stoked flames and restocked supplies. They recited minerals, stones, and their properties. It centred them. They had worked briefly as a geologist before Thedas, and the proximity to ore seemed to calm them on a material level. Eventually, once their enthusiasm became an accepted norm in the smithy, Harrit began to teach them how to hammer. They were clumsy at first, as most people would be, but their attention and energy focused intently on learning. To the rest of Haven, the Herald finally found something to occupy them.

In truth, it did. It occupied Adrian’s agitation and their anxiety. They did not know they needed it until Harrit barked the start time to them during a particularly trying episode of interrogation. Adrian had beamed. Over time, it became the first constant that Adrian clung to as an isle of control. The focus and occupation allowed their body to settle and their brain to churn through the thousands of thoughts that all competed for expression. There were many days that Adrian would end their shift and sit on the stable fence to write furiously or speed off to pin down a member of the Inner Circle with a new litany of questions and ideas—to the eternal amusement of Harrit, who was now relatively free of such assaults.

The shop had never been so tidy. Harrit thought nothing of it for the most part—the Herald had taken on an apprentice role more-or-less, and the apprentice needed to learn up-keep. The apprentice was learning. That is until he started to notice that if the Herald was not otherwise occupied in the smithy, they would quietly readjust something that had been moved or replaced. A journeyman would take a tool from one hook and return it to another, and the Herald, quietly sipping tea in the background would slip behind them and place it on the correct hook. It took a few times before Harrit realized that without a task, the Herald would appear to be focused on their writing or tea, that the nonchalance was feigned and that the Herald was in truth keenly watching the activity and correcting the placement of objects. He had not heard an objection from the journeymen, so he simply reengaged the Herald in another task, even if it was just to fetch him a mug of tea that he would not drink. At the end of their shift, the focus on the organization would snap—and the Herald would leave them be.

One morning, he noticed that the Herald had not left the anvil. Approaching them casually, he noticed that they were working on a long knife—and it was not terrible. He waved to catch their notice and returned the Herald’s smile.

“That’s good work,” he praised.

The Herald’s smile widened, “Thank you! I really want this one to be good. I’m trying to make a long knife for Thea. I think it might help with some of her foraging, you know, or not. But she doesn’t _have_ a long knife. And I have an idea for a nice haft.”

They were holding the blade out, and Harrit gave his notes on what was going well and what needed to be worked on. It took a few days, but eventually the Herald had crafted a fine long knife with an antler handle in which they had carved the shape of the valley’s river among mountain motifs. It was crude, but it was suitable.

Harrit gave them a pat on the back and raised his teacup—long cold by mid-morning—to clink against Adrian’s own. The Herald returned the gesture, but their eyes were far away. Later, Harrit would spy them with the hafted blade, working and reworking on the handle, smoothing and correcting. He saw them do this a few times.

On the fourth, he called to them, “There will be nothing left of that handle if you don’t just give it to her!”

The Herald had smiled sheepishly and put the knife away.

Thea had gladly accepted the long knife, and tolerated how Adrian hovered, pointing out the imperfections.

“Adrian,” she sighed, “you’re going to ruin your own gift.”

Adrian grimaced.

“Okay,” they admitted. They bit their lip and quietly told themself that they would make a better one.

Adrian began to ask people about their armor and its additions. They even swallowed their own scowl to ask the Commander about templar equipment and how it interacted with magic. They started to grill Seeker Pentaghast, as well as other former templars, about lyrium and its effects.

As their training with Harrit advanced alongside their training with the recruits, Adrian began to experiment with equipment modifications. They were not aesthetically pleasing at first, but with determination, Adrian added the occasional embroidery or flare. Soon, they were eyeing up the bows that Thea had begun to master.

It had slowly spiralled into an obsession, but one that hid in plain sight. The Herald was a curious person. They were a caring person. They had _ideas_ and they wanted to _try_ everything. Was it not a good thing that they wanted the best versions of things? The most efficient?

Journals filled with tables and numbers, with measurements and plans. There was ink always smudged on their fingertips, soot always under their nails, and a thimble twirling in their fingers. But the trades began to murmur again about the overwhelming observation. The Herald did not interfere, but they kept track. It was then, when muttered comments flitted below the din of the tavern, that Varric became concerned.

He found the Herald at a table in the Chantry archives, chewing on their nails and staring at another open journal full of numbers, full of _tracking_ , full of that sense of control.

No one knew exactly what he said to them, but a passing scout had overheard the Herald say, “If there is something I can do, then I can do it.”

And that same scout returning from whatever task they had also happened to overhear the storyteller say to the Herald, “I can’t say there is nothing out to get you, but if you obsess over the details, you will be caught by the larger current. I’m not saying don’t write things down. I’m saying that you don’t need to keep track of every cough and fart in Haven.”

That same scout had mentioned something about sobs or tears, but only a few times before a certain dwarven hand clamped on their shoulder and politely convinced them not to embellish about the Herald and their projects.

Adrian left their journals in their cabin. If something needed recording, then it would survive the trip back to the cabin and their writing desk. They still twirled a thimble and interrogated the officers about the minutia of their days, but they breathed easy under the light of conversation that replaced observation.

Adrian woke one morning to find a spider in their shoe. After shrieking, they trapped it in a glass. It was familiar. They had seen one just like it when they had worked in a camp, in a different north, in a different world. They stared at it, frowning. They did not write it down. They did not memorize its details to watch for later. Instead, they lifted the glass. The spider fled to a warm corner. Still frowning, Adrian left the cabin to collect their morning potch and wait for the forge to open. 


End file.
